


Where Do You Stand If You've No Name?

by Guardian_Rose



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Tumblr Prompt, doubts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 20:07:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19752910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guardian_Rose/pseuds/Guardian_Rose
Summary: They’d called him Principality. Guardian of the Eastern Gate. Handed him a sword and labelled him a fighter. Aziraphale. Of Raphael. Labelled in the light of another. Expectations to uphold.He fails instantly. They do not strip him of his titles.He makes mistakes and then chooses to do what he believes is Good instead of what he is always told. But only after it is pointed out to him that what Up Above sees is not the same as what they see, close to the ground.





	Where Do You Stand If You've No Name?

**Author's Note:**

> This was heavily inspired by drawlight's fic Salinity (And Other Measures Of Brackish Water) in terms of the prose style so go check out their fic too!
> 
> Thank you to the anon who sent in the request: "How about a hurt/comfort story where, after the apocawasn’t, Aziraphale is the one who worries he isn’t good enough for Crowley? He’s spent 6000 years being for the most part a loyal operative of Heaven. Now that he’s admitted to himself that Heaven isn’t the prefect side he wanted to believe; he starts questioning how good he can be for following them for so long even when he didn’t want to. Crowley said things like “not the kids” while he’d just assumed there must be a good reason"

Labels are both grounding and freeing. A method to find purpose and to lose it. To hold on tight to this vestibule of one’s self or to fling the door closed, cut it off and never look back. A label tells you of properties and small details. 

A label is not permanent. Ever. Not even names stick around for all time. 

It hadn’t seemed right to imagine that Heaven’s labelling of him would be impermanent though. 

They’d called him Principality. Guardian of the Eastern Gate. Handed him a sword and labelled him a fighter. Aziraphale. Of Raphael. Labelled in the light of another. Expectations to uphold. 

He fails instantly. They do not strip him of his titles. 

He makes mistakes and then chooses to do what he _ believes _ is Good instead of what he is always told. But only after it is pointed out to him that what Up Above sees is not the same as what they see, close to the ground. Living amongst the children and the lovers and the creators. The nurturers and the warriors. 

“Not the kids” and it is not his voice uttering those words. It should be. He is the ethereal. But it is the occult that sees the truth and dares to speak against it in the name of justice.

He is labelled ‘angel’ by a demon and it is not slurred with hate or barbed with poison. It is a soft endearment, loving in near silence. He gifts a label back and over time comes to pour his heart and soul into each of the words. Even before he realises what he’s doing.

Years pass. Paper tags grow brown with age and crumble at the edges. Scarred with folded lines. 

He’s not a warrior. Who would want to be? How can it be Good to seek out hate and add your blade to the piling of the deceased?

So perhaps, in this way, he has earned his reprieve. He has been Good. He has not swayed and has not Fallen. But not all demons are so clear to see. So easy to understand. 

Red hair. Fake bullet hole stickers. Shivering plants. Teasing smiles. Dark glasses. 

Transparent but multi-faceted. A million scaled spots of light flicker off him. Sharp. Strong. Beautiful.

He makes his own labels. Not ‘Nice’. Not ‘Good’. Not ‘Cruel’. 

How does one come close to deserving to stand in that spattering of crystal drops? Surely he does not. After all. He did not protest. 

“Not the kids.” Not he.

And yet. 

The smiles grow bigger. The sunglasses no longer cover golden eyes richer to him than a dragon’s hoard. Red hair he’s asked to run his fingers through (and he does. Every time. Wanted to for oh so long. Who is he to refuse?). The same stickers on the car window as they race down streets at inhuman speeds. 

Their hands joined together the whole drive. That is human. More human than either of them were labelled in the beginning. They’ve shed those names. Those proper nouns they did not ask for. 

They’re writing their own.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! <3
> 
> Beta by [Guardian_Thorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guardian_Thorn/pseuds/Guardian_Thorn) Thank you <3
> 
> Prompts welcome here and on my writing tumblr [WordToTheRose](https://wordtotherose.tumblr.com/) or come say hi on my main [Guardian-Rose-Petal](https://guardian-rose-petal.tumblr.com/)


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